


Red

by elumish



Series: Werewolves 101 [24]
Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Werewolves Are Known, Bondage, M/M, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Safeword Use
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-16
Updated: 2016-07-16
Packaged: 2018-07-24 11:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,232
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7505932
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elumish/pseuds/elumish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Stiles doesn’t feel proud, he just feels stupid, and this whole thing is fucking ridiculous. Because it’s been so long since Eichen House, and he shouldn’t keep having flashbacks to it because it was just a few minutes in the middle of a whole disaster of other things when he was a teenager.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red

Something presses against Stiles’s temple, and it’s a drill, and he’s trapped, he’s trapped, he needs to get out, he’s going to die, he’s going to die, and he’s blind and he’s trying to scream but nobody’s going to hear him, nobody’s going to hear him, and he’s going to die.

There are hands against him, and maybe voices that he can’t hear over the screaming in his head, and he needs to get away, and somewhere in the back of his mind he has the idea that there’s a word he can say to get free, there’s a word he needs to say, but there’s so much panic in his head that he can’t think past it, because he’s going to die here in this basement of Eichen House because some fucker is going to drill his brains out.

And then he knows the word, and he screams, “Red, red, please don’t kill me,” and then his hands are free and he scrambles into the corner and curls up as small as he can, knees that are tied up against each other up in front of him as his fingers scrabble at his face, trying to pull off whatever is covering his face.

He gets it off, finally, and the room is bright, too bright, and his heart is too fast, and he’s hyperventilating, and this is all wrong. It’s all wrong.

“Stiles?”

That’s Derek, oh fuck, and Stiles buries his face against his knees and tries to breathe, pressing his aching fingers against his knees to use the pain to ground himself. “Sorry. I’m sorry. I fucked up. I’m sorry.”

The bed shifts a little, but Stiles doesn’t look up. “You didn’t fuck up. You needed an out and you took it, just like you’re supposed to. I’m really proud of you for that.”

Stiles doesn’t feel proud, he just feels stupid, and this whole thing is fucking ridiculous. Because it’s been so long since Eichen House, and he shouldn’t keep having flashbacks to it because it was just a few minutes in the middle of a whole disaster of other things when he was a teenager. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have—I shouldn’t—” He can’t breathe again, or he’s breathing too fast, he doesn’t know, and he just wants to be somewhere else. Anywhere else. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

“Can I touch you?”

The thought of someone touching him makes his skin crawl, and he can’t—he can’t— “No, I—I’m sorry.” He’s crying now, he can feel the heat in his eyes and the wetness on his cheeks, and this is just so goddamn embarrassing. “I’m sorry.”

“That’s okay.” The bed shifts a little again. “What I want to do, whenever you’re ready, is get the ropes off your legs. I know you moved them into that position but with the way you’re tied they’re going to start cutting off your circulation soon. I can hand you some scissors and you can cut them off yourself, or I can cut them off, but we should get them off soon.”

Stiles can feel that pain now that he knows it’s supposed to be there, that ache like when he’s slept on his arm for four or five hours during one of his better nights, and he should deal with it but he doesn’t want touch and he wants sharp things even less. “I can’t—”

“That’s okay. I’m going to go grab some water and a granola bar. You hit close enough to subspace that I’m afraid you’re going to drop. More than you’ve already dropped. Will you be okay by yourself for a minute?”

Stiles isn’t okay now, is shaking and his legs hurt and he just can’t—but he nods anyway.

“I love you.” And then Derek is gone.

And Stiles can’t breathe. Back in a corner, walls against his back, nobody can get to him, and he can’t breathe because he knows he’s not in Eichen House, he knows that because that was fucking years ago, but his brain doesn’t know it, and he’s alone, he’s alone, and anyone can get to him and he’s trapped and he can’t get free and his legs are tied up so he can’t run, he can’t get away, and he needs out, he needs out.

There are words that he can’t hear over his breathing, and then there are hands on him and he tries to kick out but he’s still trapped, and then he’s free, loose rope tangled around his leg, and he kicks out and connects. The person doesn’t move, though, but they stop touching him.

“Please don’t—I can’t. Please don’t.”

“I’m sorry I had to touch you,” and it’s Derek, of course it’s Derek, who else would it be, Derek is the only one around, “but you were going to hurt yourself, and I couldn’t let you do that.”

“S’okay. ‘m sorry.” He presses his face against his legs. “I’m sorry.”

“For kicking me?” Derek laughs a little. “Laura’s kicked me harder for fun.”

Something in Stiles relaxes a little. “I think that’s usually called abuse.”

“Werewolves call it training. Or at least Laura does.” Something is set down next to Stiles, close enough that he can feel the cold radiating out from it. “I put the water and granola bar down next to you. I know you don’t like granola bars, but I want you to eat it to get your blood sugar back up.”

Stiles grabs blindly and gets the water; he wrestles the cap off and puts it up to his lips, and suddenly he’s parched. The water tastes fucking heavenly, and he can’t get enough of it.

“Slowly,” Derek says softly. “Don’t make yourself sick.”

He forces himself to put it down, twisting the top back on one-handed so he doesn’t have to move his other arm. He’s still shaking.

“Can you tell me what will help you?” Derek asks. “It’s alright if the answer is no.”

“I—” The words aren’t there, or are but are all tangled, so he just shakes his head. “Please.”

“Okay. Do you want to move somewhere else?”

The idea of moving, of having his back exposed even for a second, is enough to send his heart racing, his breath punching out, and he shakes his head.

“Do you want me to touch you?” His skin crawls; he shakes his head again. “Do you want me to go somewhere else?” Then he’ll be exposed, and he can’t do that. “Okay. I’ll stay here as long as you need me to.”

“Will you keep me safe?”

Derek moves a little. “Stiles—”

He doesn’t get it. “Will you keep me safe, please?”

“Yeah.” Derek’s voice is rough. “Yeah, of course, I’ll keep you safe. I promise.”

He believes him, because it’s Derek, and Derek keeps him safe. Derek is strong and protective and good at keeping him safe. “Can I have my headphones and my phone? Please?”

“Of course.” Derek shifts again, and then they’re set down next to the water. “Eat the granola bar.”

Stiles grabs the phone and plugs the headphones in then turns on music and sticks the earbuds in his ears. Music blasts in his ears, just loud enough for him not to be able to hear himself think, and he rests his head on his knees, closes his eyes, and tries not to think.

**Author's Note:**

> Whoo sad Stiles.


End file.
